


All the love you give (I wanna give back to you)

by zyr (pxssnelke)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Ballet Dancer Yuri Plisetsky, Established Relationship, Fluff, I got cavities writing this, M/M, Marriage, Podfic Available, Soulmate AU, can be read as canonverse, feeling your soulmates emotions, soft, toothrotting fluff srsly, writing appears on your soulmates skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:21:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22050238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pxssnelke/pseuds/zyr
Summary: He can feel the warmth of the simple “Good morning, love” imprinting on his skin and this at least is familiar in a way he can handle and deal with.The emotions that wash over him, that feel like they are transmitted over the place where their skin touches, the emotions are also familiar, and yet, yet he has absolutely no idea how to handle them.It feels like his body is too small for all the love it has to contain, it feels like his eyes are going to flow over every second, it feels like he needs to split open his chest and make the other fit into the space inside his rib cage.
Relationships: Lilia Baranovskaya & Yuri Plisetsky, Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 8
Kudos: 62
Collections: Yuri!!! on Ice Secret Skater 2019





	All the love you give (I wanna give back to you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lonesomewriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonesomewriter/gifts).



> This is my secret skater gift! It’s a little late but that’s because the scenes kept flowing and this somehow turned out longer than it was supposed to be. But that’s not such a bad thing is it?
> 
> I kind of went with a mix of the “what you write/draw on your skin will also appear on your soulmate” and the “you can feel your soulmates emotions” tropes. I hope you like it!

He feels the soft tingling, the warmth of the words before he sees them.  
He doesn’t know what they say yet and he won’t look immediately, can’t.

He cradles his arm with the words to his chest for a moment before extending it above his head again. 

Hold the position.  
Steps with his feet.  
His toes hurt but he can’t feel it in this moment.

The warmth has faded but he can still feel the remnants of the feelings the words held.  
(Maybe deep down he does know what they say, maybe he doesn’t need to know the words to know their meaning.)

He lowers his arm, fingertips nearly touching as he brings his other arm in for them to form a circle.  
Another step, then a jump.

His legs are straining, but he can’t feel it in this moment.  
The stage is like that, takes his awareness of his body and enlargers it at the same time. 

The light is warm, but now it almost feels cool in contrast.  
He doesn’t complain, sweat beading on his forehead.

A turn, hands separating and meeting again.  
A turn and another and another and another before he stands still, goes up on one leg, extending the other in the air.  
He stays there, just for a moment that stretches on into infinity.

There’s a tiny smile laying on his lips when he lets himself fall backwards into the arms of the others.  
They lower him to the ground, disappear again.  
His eyes stay closed for this moment, this one short moment in the performance where he can rest, where time seems to stand still.

The violins take up their melody again and he lifts his back up from the floor, like his chest is being pulled up by a string.

He can feel something else then, exactly where the string would be attached to his heart. Another burst of warmth and love and admiration shoots through him and he can’t hold back his smile anymore.  
It makes its appearance for a split second before he remembers himself, his role and schedules his features into something more fitting.  
A dying swan doesn’t smile, after all.

The stage is what is important now, nothing and no one else.  
He’s going to give his all and more and the love coursing through him gives him all the energy he needs to keep going and keep going and dance his part better than he ever has before.

-

After the show, when he’s in the dressing room, peeling away the layers of fabric, they reveal the little heart on the middle of his chest, slightly to the left so that it matches the one made from flesh that’s beating steady under the little drawing. A dazzling smile appears on his face and he can feel the warmth in his chest as if it was emanating from the black lines. And maybe he can.

He gets teased relentlessly for it, but silences the others with a single scowl.

He leaves the “beautiful” on the inside of his arm for later.

-

When he wakes, it’s by a soft fondness coursing through his veins. For a moment he just lays there, confused. The haze of sleep that’s still layered over his mind makes him unable to think a lot.  
So he just basks in the warmth of the feeling and feels himself relaxing. He doesn’t know why he’s feeling like this or where it comes from but it’s so much like a comforting blanket wrapped around him that he doesn’t question it.

It’s only when the feeling starts to subside like it’s seeping into his body through all the cracks and disappears under the surface that he starts waking up properly. It’s a slow process, turning around onto his other side, laying still for a moment, turning around again. He blinks his eyes open slowly and closes them again when the blinding light from the window stings too much. 

A small grumble leaves his lips. When it stays unanswered he turns again, facing the side of the bed that’s apparently now empty.  
His hand reaches from underneath the warm blanket cocoon and it only finds cold, empty sheets.  
His eyebrows wrinkle in distaste.

He tries blinking his eyes open again and this time the light isn’t so bad anymore. He’s turned away from the window after all too.  
He rubs away the sleep that’s collected in the corner of his eyes and sees now clearly what he already knew.  
The bed is empty.  
Well he’s still lying in it and so are the sheets, the blankets, and the pillows but the other side of the bed is void of a human body. 

His frown intensifies.  
He now realises that the fondness rushing through him earlier probably hadn’t been his own. Sighing softly he searches his body for markings.

He doesn’t have to search long, only follow his still stretched out arm towards his hand with his gaze.  
The back of it is drawn on once again, this time a little bear that looks scarily realistic. 

It’s cute and it’s sweet and it’s so sickeningly romantic to wake him up like this that he can’t help the renewed rush of fondness that spills over the margins of his heart.  
This time he knows it’s his own. 

He’s usually good at recognising and separating whose emotions he’s feeling -the fact that the rush of foreign feelings always comes with colour and warmth on his skin helps a lot- but when he’s sleepy and his mind hasn’t completely returned from the dreamlands to his body yet he’s particularly inclined to forget to differentiate.  
His lover knows this, of course and doesn’t hesitate to use it to his fullest advantage.

He grumbles a little, shifting and slowly making his way out of the blanket nest.  
He would feel offended being woken up like this, but he doesn’t have it in him today.  
Not this early in the morning and not when he can still feel the phantom remnants of the overwhelming warmth that the feelings had brought. 

(He doesn’t ever truly mind. There’s nothing but love and warmth he gets woken up by after all. It does make waking up sweeter and more pleasant.)

He sits up, slowly, pushing the hair out of his eyes. Turns around, looks out of the window. 

The ash tree is starting to green properly again, he thinks, and a small smile replaces the frown.  
There’s a little bluetit sitting in one of the branches, feeding from one of the left over bird fat balls. 

His smile grows larger when he turns his head towards his phone, unlocking it.  
He remembers what day it is.

-

The dressing room is full with life and people and it has his eyebrow twitching. One more second of this and he is going to go insane or throw a temper tantrum, possibly both.  
Another second passes and now the dog (which he loves thank you very much) has started to annoy his cat (which to be fair he would have reacted similarly) who has now in turn decided to fight back and not just sit there and ignore him.  
Scratch that, if this goes on any longer he’s _definitely_ going to go insane and throw a temper tantrum _both._

Lucky for him and everyone else Lilia sees right through him. Her eyes are piercing and she sees every little movement.

“Yuuri. Take the pets and your husband outside. Yakov and everyone else, leave. I want to have a moment alone,” she commands the room. For a second everyone freezes, then complies.

He would never admit it, but deep down he aspires to be as scary and authoritative as Lilia. The woman makes people listen to her simply by breathing.

He’s grateful that she shooed everyone out. His shoulders slump, relaxing a little, the air that he had in his lungs leaves his body in a soft rush.

There’s a hand between his eyebrows and another one‘s fingers are lifting his chin up. He hadn’t even noticed that he had lowered his gaze.

She’s smoothing out his frown, he realises belatedly and instantly starts to relax his features.  
Hypocritical, really, with the way her face seems to constantly be frozen into a look of disdain and judgement.  
A soft smile forms in his eyes.

Lilia has always understood him best.  
She’s not his favourite coach for no reason. She takes him seriously and even understands where his limits are. She might drive him up a wall sometimes but he’s always better off for it. He can’t say the same about Yakov or the idiot couple.

Lilia is hard on him, but only because she knows he needs it and can handle it.  
He appreciates her more for it. 

There’s never been much softness or talk about feelings between them, but in this moment where she holds his head in her hands he thinks he can see her eyes crinkle and her lips twitch upwards fondly.  
Lilia isn’t a woman who smiles.  
He thinks he can count the number of times he’s seen her do it on one hand.

(The day he had his first performance on a big stage. The day where he got his first main role. The day he danced her choreography, the one that no one else dared to touch because of the difficulty. It hasn’t been perfect but he remembers the softness around her eyes all the same.  
The day where he had met Otabek.)

And now today, she looks him in the eyes, face still in her hands, delicately held, and she smiles at him. It’s open and soft and it’s fuller of fondness than he’s ever seen her.  
Time stops for a moment then and he realises just how much the woman means to him. And how much he, now obvious for him to see, means to her.

She’d been like a second mother, or rather an actual mother, his own never being home much.  
She’d been a constant presence in his life, a constant pushing force that has made him who he is today.  
She’s seen him cry and smile and fall in love and cry again and smile again.  
She’s been there for him in silent support, giving him a way to vent his feelings out through dance. And in this moment, staring into her green eyes, he realises just how thankful he is to have her in his life.

“You know everything I could tell you already. I’m proud of you, котёнок. I forever will be,” she tightens her grip around his face momentarily, then let’s go and turns around towards the table.  
She had never been one for body contact, expressing her affection differently. He’s learned it and even though he himself is the type to do it, he respects her boundaries and tries to show her in other ways that he appreciates her. 

He’s never been good at words but when she turns and has a brush in her hands, he smiles again to himself. That he can let her do. 

She always does his hair and his make up. It’s in a way become a ritual for them before performances. He doesn’t let anyone else touch his hair (except Otabek of course, but even then he doesn’t allow him to actually do anything with it) and he sure as hell is not going to let anyone come near his face with any type of product.  
But he trusts Lilia with this.  
He lets her brush his hair, braid it and style it into an elaborate updo and after that he smiles at her when she starts working on his face. 

It feels like before one of his performances, except it isn’t.

And just like that the moment is broken again, Lilias last brush lifted from his face like a spell. 

The nervousness returns in full force and almost as if he had drawn on his skin and shared the feeling, he gets the reassurance he needs in form of little stars on the inside of his left wrist and a feeling of decisiveness, of calmness about a choice made.

The feeling spreads inside him and frowns out all the nerves he had.  
It’s not like he was doubting anything. It’s not like he would have changed his decision. He is and always was sure of this and it’s not going to change. He knows what he wants and he will go and make it a reality for himself. That’s just the way he is and always has been and he knows this.  
So logically he knows there is no need, no reason at all for him to be nervous, but then again feelings aren’t something to be explained by logic, are they.

So he sits there and his fingers that had just started fidgeting stop their movement as soon as he feels the golden warmth of the little stars seep into his wrist.

He looks then, watches them appear one after the other to form Ursa Major, black in contrast to his light skin.

A full on smile now sits on his face.

There’s a knock on the door to the room and it opens to reveal his grandfather.

He runs to hug him immediately. He doesn’t think he will ever be able to love someone as much as he loves his grandpa. 

“Is it time already?” he hears Lilia ask from behind him.  
His grandfather’s nod makes his head move against his body and they slowly move away from each other. It’s not like they haven’t seen each other already today.  
He had been woken up by his grandfather and they still live in the same house. 

Nikolai’s hands hold him at his shoulders, his eyes looking at him, at his suit, at his hair, at his face, at his eyes.  
When he has studied everything with that wrinkle at the corner of his eyes and with the familiar appraising look, he beams. 

“I’m so proud of you, Yurachka. You look gorgeous,” he says “Lilia did a great job,” he adds, his gaze finding hers.

He takes a last look into the mirror, admiring himself and checking it over for any possible disturbances.  
When he’s content, he takes Nikolai’s arm and turns towards the door.  
His suit looks flawless, so does his grandfather’s and so does Lilia’s dress.

He likes the hairdo she did, more elaborate and complicated than what she usually does for him when he has performances yet still not ridiculous or over the top.  
The same with his make up. He isn’t one to wear make up regularly, but the stage demands it, at least the basics. So he had agreed when Lilia had asked him if he wanted something for today. It doesn’t look like he’s wearing lots of make up, but it still manages to make his face look prettier, like it’s glowing from the inside out. Or maybe that’s just him and the happiness he feels. He decides he likes the make up.

They are nearly out of the door, when a hand on his shoulder holds him back. 

She presses a pen into his hand and looks him into the eyes. 

“Don’t be nervous. You caught a good one. Let him know, too.”

Apparently he had been more obvious than he thought and every other day he would mind it, but not today.  
Not today, not with Lilia.

He untangles his and his grandfather’s arms and takes the pen into his left hand.  
It’s a little shaky but he manages to draw little stars in the right formation. He concentrates on what he remembered earlier, how this has always been something he wanted and how he never had any doubts about this. How his nervousness has faded and how he feels only excitement and overwhelming affection now that he’s about to step out of this room and walk his walk. How he has never been more fiercely sure about something in his entire life. How much love is cursing through his veins.  
He can’t feel anything happening, but he knows that it does.

He hands Lilia her pen back and looks down onto his wrists once more.  
Ursa Major and the Lynx (the closest he can get to a tiger) stare back up at him, shining like an inverted night sky on his skin.

He shares one last look with his teacher, mentor, family member, then turns around, takes his grandfather’s arm again and they start the walk towards the waiting guests and -more importantly- the love of his life.

-

The sun softly illuminates the hotel room, a warm orange gold.  
It’s still early; he doesn’t really know why he’s awake just yet. 

He looks at the face in front of his, still mellow with sleep.  
Otabek looks happy, he thinks, even unconscious. 

And of course, why wouldn’t he be?

His eyes wander towards their still clasped hands, laying between them. They easily find the glint of the rings, the ceiling mirrored in them.  
He also sees his own face and he would be embarrassed about how soft his smile is if it was any other day.  
Maybe he will even be embarrassed about it later, but for now his sleep addled brain wants to hold onto this moment and simply look at the gorgeous man next to him. 

Mine, he thinks, all mine and only mine.

He stays like this, watching, thinking a bit, dozing off again.

He’s somewhere between dreams and wakefulness when Otabek stirs. 

The blanket slips from his shoulder, exposing naked skin, so golden and soft and Yuri wants to touch and hold and to never let go. 

And, because he can, because he is, irrevocably, allowed to touch and hold this gorgeous man in front of him, he does.  
He moves his hand so that his fingertips are softly grazing the others cheeks, a touch so gentle that it almost isn’t there entirely.  
A smile blooms on Otabeks face and Yuri feels it mirrored on his own just a second later.

The fluttering of lashes draws his attention back up from those soft lips to the dark, charcoal eyes that he loves to get lost in. 

The other turns around after holding eye contact for what seems like an eternity.  
He doesn’t let go of their still clasped hands with the glittering rings when he fetches a simple black pen from the bedside table. 

He uncaps the pen with his teeth (hot, Yuri’s brain supplies unhelpfully) and keeps the cap between his soft lips (that feel so wonderful on his skin, Yuri’s brain supplies, again, unhelpfully).  
He connects their gazes again, then deliberately looks away, onto his biceps that’s peeking out from under the covers.  
He steals another short look and Yuri knows him so well, can read the mischief in it. In a sense he knows what’s coming.  
And yet he isn’t prepared for it when the other sets the tip of the pen down onto his own skin and starts writing. 

He can feel the warmth of the simple “Good morning, love” imprinting on his skin and this at least is familiar in a way he can handle and deal with.  
The emotions that wash over him, that feel like they are transmitted over the place where their skin touches, the emotions are also familiar, and yet, yet he has absolutely no idea how to handle them. 

It feels like his body is too small for all the love it has to contain, it feels like his eyes are going to flow over every second, it feels like he needs to split open his chest and make the other fit into the space inside his rib cage.

He feels the happiness and love and calm and just pure euphoria washing over him and he knows it’s not just coming from Otabek and from the letters on his arm, but also from inside his own heart too. 

He must pull a face because Otabek lifts the pen again, slower this time, moves it so that his hand touches Yuri’s naked chest, the tip of the pen hovering just over his skin.  
He holds eye contact, waiting for Yuri’s soft smile and his nod, giving him permission.

He inks an “I love you” into Yuri’s skin.

And it’s beautiful because Yuri can see the way it appears over Otabeks own heart, mirroring his own and he can see the moment Otabek feels just how much Yuri loves him back.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you a lot for reading!  
> Kudos and comments would be the cherry on top <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] All the love you give (I want to give back to you)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22269403) by [lysandyra (pxssnelke)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pxssnelke/pseuds/lysandyra)




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